Tag Archives: America

Miss Havisham is, probably, the worst thing in human fiction

Posted on October 1, 2015 by mafalda

‘Cassandra’ was a nickname of RLS’s father for his daughter-in-law, Fanny.The scheme of a play to be founded on Dickens’s Great Expectations was one of a hundred formed in these days and afterwards given up. [Dots between square brackets indicate … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged America, amiable, £, beard, boy, business, capture, Cassandra, casts, Chalet la Solitude, convicts, demands, development, Dickens, disclosure, ease, Eastbourne, escape, excellent, eyes, fantastic, father, float, forpet, Great Expectations, grown-up, habit, Hamlet, haunted, Hôtel des Îles d'Or, human fiction, Hyères, impossible, improbabilities, improved, ineffective, killed, lamb, lawyer, milk, Miss Havisham, money, originals, outline, parrot, play, prologue, re-read, rice, rich, riverside, Robert Louis Stevenson, rolled away, scenes, shop, son, splendid, story, streaming, strong, Thomas Stevenson, Trabb, trifles, unhuman, Var, weather, Wemmick, wild, Wogg, Wopsle, work, worst | Leave a comment

He has my free permission to borrow from me all that he can find worth borrowing

Posted on August 23, 2015 by mafalda

At Marseilles, while waiting to occupy the house which he had leased in the suburbs of that city, RLS learned that his old friend and kind adviser, James Payn, with whom he had been intimate as sub-editor of the Cornhill … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged A Grape from a Thorn, America, ashamed, Atlantic, Borrow, brethren, By Proxy, columns, correspondent, defend, duplicate, editor, England, error, generosity, honour, human nature, humorous, idea, ignorance, ill-judged, invent, kindness, London weekly, Lost Sir Massingberd, man of letters, Marseille, monstrous, nameless, New Arabian Nights, New York Tribune, note, pathetic, Payn, penitence, permission, pleasantry, profession, professional propriety, readers, Robert Louis Stevenson, story, Terminus Hotel, trangress, wanderings | Leave a comment

No man is any use until he has dared everything

Posted on October 25, 2014 by mafalda

RLS’s rail journey across America began from the New Jersey terminal of the Pennsylvania Railroad on the evening of 18 August 1879. At Pittsburgh on 19 August evening he changed to the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago Railroad and travelled … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged air, America, asleep, cars, changed, charge, Chicago, child’s games, cigar-case, Colvin, dare, Delaware, die, dream, drink, eat, emigrant train, enfranchised, eyes, faith, field, flood, food, fortune, front, grain of mustard seed, heavenly, hill, impossible, Indiana, kid, king, lotus, man, meadow, mind, mother, Muse, New York, Ohio, otherwhere, Pittsburgh, Robert Louis Stevenson, San Francisco, sing, suicide, Susquehannah, thoughts, travelling, true, wearying, west, wood, write, yore | Leave a comment

I had a quarrel with the American on politics

Posted on April 20, 2014 by mafalda

The Confederate privateer Alabama, built in England for the Confederate States Navy, caused disorder and devastation in the shipping of the North during the American Civil War, in years 1862-1864. The prolonged negotiations over the US Government’s claim for compensation … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged Alabama, America, American, beer, book, conservatism, dawn, dinner, disguise, eighteenth century, England, existence, Fanny Sitwell, Four Great Scotsmen, French, garden, Hebrew, History, hotel, Hume David, idea, injury, John Knox, Menton, modern, money, national, nervous, poems, politics, prevateer, race, reconciliation, Robert Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson, Romance, romantic, Scotland, Scotsmen, sentimental, sentiments, social media, society, sunset; snobbery, temper, voice, walk, Walter Scott, war | Leave a comment

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Tag Archives: America

Miss Havisham is, probably, the worst thing in human fiction

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He has my free permission to borrow from me all that he can find worth borrowing

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No man is any use until he has dared everything

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